If You Want Something Done Right
by Auntie Lib
Summary: Another postLiving Doll story. Told almost exclusively from Sara's point of view.
1. Part 1

If You Want Something Done Right...

PART ONE

The first thing Sara Sidle saw when she opened her eyes was… nothing. All around her was darkness so complete that it made no difference whether her eyes were open or closed. Being a scientist, she of course felt the need to test the theory: eyes open, eyes closed, open. Nope. No difference at all. Either way, it was dark.

_I am an investigator_, she thought with disgust_. Investigate! _So… it was dark, but not silent. Not a tomb; not a box buried in the ground_. Oh, God. Not buried. Not like Nick- No! Don't even go there. Calm. Keep calm, _she ordered

With effort, Sara managed to quiet her breathing. She had never before been afraid of confined spaces. During the almost daily storms that comprised the worst of her violent childhood, her bedroom closet, filled with shoes, forgotten toys and dust bunnies, had been her refuge, her safe place when her parents' fighting threatened to engulf the entire house.

With her eyes closed once again, Sara was better able to concentrate on her surroundings. She was lying on her side, hands and feet unbound (as far as she could tell) and unharmed. She had a headache, a queasy stomach, her right arm and hip were asleep and there was a strange, burning ache along her shoulders. But she was otherwise unhurt.

She remembered leaving her apartment, going up to her car on the top of the parking garage, setting her kit in the trunk of her car. Then, a strange, female voice calling her. "Sara." The voice of a little girl, so odd in that place, but filled with such purposeful malice. "Sara!"

Sara remembered turning to look for the source of the voice, then …

If she really tried, she could conjure up sense memories: a burning jolt along the back of her neck. Pain. Numbness spreading along her arms and legs. Her head hitting the open trunk lid as she pitched forward. A sharp sting in her arm. The effort it took to remember made her head feel as if it might burst open like an overripe melon, however, so she gave up the attempt and tried to concentrate on the here and now instead.

_Now_, she thought. _Where's "here"?_ Searching around with her hands, she discovered carpet under her and metal above her. The smell of exhaust fumes, oil and rubber assaulted her senses. _Ahhh. Now we're getting somewhere. A trunk. A car trunk._ Not moving, though. Parked somewhere. And not her own trunk. Much as she loved her little Prius, it didn't really boast enough trunk space to transport a body. Not enough to accommodate her own long legs, anyway. _That's okay_, she soothed_. It_ wasn't built _for such things. People who care about the environment don't generally carry bodies around in the trunks of their eco-friendly hybrids._

Reaching forward, she tried to find the latch that would allow the trunk to open from the inside. As her fingers fumbled for the spring-loaded catch, the lid popped open on its own, the interior light blinding her.

With her eyes squeezed shut, she heard the familiar, soothing (freaky!) voice "You're awake." Another sharp sting, this time in her thigh. _Oh,_ she thought_. That pain, it was a needl_… and she drifted down into nothingness once more.

The second time she awoke, she was lying face down in the dirt. It was still dark but not the all-consuming dark of the trunk. There was moonlight and she could see shadows. Her right arm was stretched out alongside her head and there was a great weight pressing inexorably down on her back, hips and shoulders. Pain built to an almost unbearable level as the object settled upon her, until she felt as if her bones must surely snap under the pressure. "Ca… can't breathe," she groaned.

She became aware then that she wasn't alone. A face, upside-down and partially obscured by lank hair, peered in at her from underneath the… what? Boulder? Twenty-story building? Had there been a cave-in of some kind? An earthquake? "You're awake again. Good. I need you awake for this part." The chilling voice now had a face.

The face disappeared and Sara felt a flicker of panic. It was slowly dawning on her that the face belonged to someone who meant to do her harm, but even the thought that there was a malevolent stranger with her was preferable to being alone in the dark with the great weight pressing down.

She heard a rhythmic clanking sound, and the weight eased slowly up off of her.

Taking great gulps of cold night air, it took a moment for Sara to identify the clanking sound as that of a jack placed somewhere to her right along the side of the object_. No_, thought Sara. _Let's call it what it is. It's a car. I've been under enough of them to recognize one._

But… nothing around her looked like the familiar undercarriage of an automobile. She may have been disoriented but what she could see seemed to be the **top** of a car. A red one. _How odd_.

Before she had time to process this new information, she felt someone – The Bitch, as she had begun to think of her – give a mighty tug on her legs from the side of the car Sara couldn't see. Staring to her right, the only direction her pinned upper body allowed her to, Sara felt hands reach in under the car to dig at the soil and sand around her body, then tug again at her legs. Dig. Pull. Dig. Pull. The Bitch was beginning to pant and grunt with the effort of getting Sara's body positioned just so. _Good. Why should I be the only one uncomfortable here, _Sara fumed.

Sara felt her body eventually settle a few inches deeper in the dirt. Feet moved around the car, back to her right side. She heard the sound of the jack once more and the car again settled down on top of her. This time, though, the dented metal of the car's top at her back and the indentations in the dirt at her front meant that she was now thoroughly pinned, but not in immediate danger of being crushed to death.

"How's that feel?" The Bitch asked, suddenly reappearing under the car's rim.

"Fine. Thanks for asking," Sara managed to choke.

"Good. Good. Wouldn't want you to die too fast, would we."

"No. We certainly wouldn't."

Sara was finding the whole situation monstrously surreal. She hadn't experimented with hard drugs during her college years. She'd been too protective of her intellect to have any desire to damage it with dangerous substances. But, if she ever had, she imagined she'd be having just this sort of conversation with a piece of lint.

"Why are you doing this?" Sara asked. (The desire to giggle hysterically was almost overwhelming. _God, I can't believe this_!)

"He's got to pay. He'll be too late and you'll die but I can't kill you. I promised Ernie."

"Ernie? Ernie who?"

"He needs to pay." The voice belonging to The Bitch had begun to sound eerily petulant and Sara's blood chilled at the realization that she was dealing with someone living far outside the Sanity city limits. "He's going to find out what it's like. I can't kill you myself but you'll die just the same. He'll be too late to save you and it'll be all his fault. Not mine. Not my fault. His." The Bitch disappeared from view, still muttering in that childish whine, "It'll be all his fault. Not mine…"

Sara heard a loud clank as the jack was pulled out from under the car, the thunk as tools were thrown into a trunk, the lid slamming shut, whump of a car door closing, an engine starting up, tires skidding on dirt, then asphalt, then engine noise fading into the distance.

Then she was alone with the quiet and the dark and the moonlight and the car poised above her.

And the panic.

"Whose fault!" she screamed into the night.

Her heart beating furiously, blood racing, Sara began to squirm violently, tugging at her outstretched arm, trying to bring it in toward her chest. What little room she had didn't allow for much movement, however, and all she got for her trouble was sore muscles and a mouth full of grit.

After a few minutes' struggle, she lay panting, beginning to sob quietly in frustration. _Dammit!_ she raged. She'd known things were going too well for her. She knewHappily Ever After was not how her story was supposed to end. She **knew** it! How many times did life have to smack her down before she **got** that?

Pressing her face into the crook of her right elbow, she allowed self-pity to take hold. Just for a moment, she indulged in tears she rarely let anyone see but the man she loved. It didn't take long, however, before the tears dried, sobs quieted, and Sara was left with an anger as intense as anything the Bible claimed as God's own.

All her life, Sara had been at the mercy of circumstance. Other people had been determining her fate since the day she was born to parents too obsessed with destroying each other to notice the brilliant, beautiful gift they had been given. Children's Services had squandered the gift on foster families too overcrowded and overworked to appreciate it. College admissions boards, academic advisors, potential employers; one very frightened, very compelling (very sexy) entomologist.

Yes, even Dr. Gil Grissom, Man Of Her Dreams and Love Of Her Life, had pulled her strings until she danced exclusively to his tune. He had been the one to initiate their first encounter, so many years ago (a lifetime, it seemed) in Berkeley. He had been the one to break it off when he returned home. He had been the one to entice her to Las Vegas with a job offer. He had been the one too afraid to act on their mutual attraction and yet unwilling to allow her to be with anyone else. And he had been the one to decide when the time was right to start it all up again. The sweet, secret life she and Grissom had managed to carve out for themselves had been worth all the effort it took to build. She knew that. Still… very little of it had been strictly on her terms.

Someone had been determining the twists and turns of her life for as long as she could remember, settling her fate before she'd even realized she had one. And now, she was at the mercy of some nameless lunatic with an unfathomable grudge who wanted her to die all alone underneath an overturned car? _I don't fucking think so, _she thought angrily. Struggling against Fate had gotten her nowhere her entire life. It was time to take charge and tell Fate to go to hell, she decided.

With effort, Sara managed to get her rage under control. She ordered her racing pulse to slow down, her breathing to calm, her muscles to relax. _Evidence. Gather the evidence. It's what you do best, Sara._

Sara concentrated on what little she could see and feel and hear, searching for clues that would help her formulate a plan of action, but it was difficult. Her headache was worse now, her vision beginning to blur. She couldn't feel her right arm. The car's weight wasn't resting fully on top of her but the dents in its roof didn't fit her body exactly. There was a lump pressing uncomfortably on her right shoulder, another digging into her left thigh; sharp metal poked the back of her skull if she raised it too high. The pressure was bearable only if she remained still. Nausea welled up and for one terrifying moment, she thought she might be sick. _Great. What a way to top off a perfect day, lying face down in my own vomit._

She took deep breaths and, to her relief, the nausea receded. Not gone but… under control. More distressing, she felt her eyelids growing heavy as she realized that whatever The Bitch had given her in that syringe wasn't yet gone from her system. She was losing consciousness and the thought terrified her. She struggled, trying to focus but the dark was beginning to engulf her. _No!_ _What if I don't wak…?_

She was dreaming. She had to be. Grissom wouldn't be caught dead in that shade of green in real life and even her dreaming self knew it and understood the absurdity. But, oh, it was good to be home, even if only in a dream, even with Grissom in pajamas so blinding it was jarring. Their big bed was warm and soft. She was lying comfortably stretched out on her stomach, watching as Grissom approached her side of the bed, carrying a glass of wine. She was so thirsty, the slightly sweet white wine would really hit the spot. He smiled, regarding her over the tops of his glasses, and she found herself smiling back. She couldn't help it. Grissom could charm the spots off a hyena when he put some effort into it. As he extended his hand, wine glass within her reach, Sara felt something cold and wet touch her fingers. She looked down and, from his position on the floor by the bed, Bruno, their gentle boxer, was pressing his nose into her hand, sniffing around for-

_Wait, what's Bruno doing here in the desert?_ she wondered. _He hates the desert. All those jackrabbits and lizards send him scurrying to Mommy's side, trembling. He never ventures far from the city streets…_

Sara slowly surfaced once again, becoming aware that what she felt on the back of her hand wasn't the dog's wet nose at all, but raindrops. The disappointment she felt at finding herself not in her comfy bed but still stuck under the wrecked car was so acute she thought her heart might stop with it.

Now, along with all the other aches, pains and discomforts, she was now cold and wet. The rain fell steadily but not hard. It was still dark, and Sara had no idea how long she'd been there, how long she'd been unconscious, or how long until dawn. Was it still Thursday? Her body lay on a slight incline, with her head higher than her feet. This meant, she realized, that the water that streamed under the car didn't come anywhere near her mouth. The rest of her body, however, were surrounded by enough water to swim in.

Taking inventory once again didn't take long: _Yep. I'm still stuck._

The anger she had been holding at bay was creeping back. The dream (or hallucination or whatever) of Grissom and their warm bed had reminded Sara of how far they had both come and how much they both had to lose. Sara wasn't particularly vain, but she could at least admit to herself that she was very important to Gil Grissom. Her death would also be the death of this man she loved so much. Whether literally or figuratively, she knew he wouldn't survive it. It had taken him so long to open up to her, to accept the possibility that they might actually be good together; to accept that she wasn't on the verge of leaving him for a younger model. The guilt, if she died because he wasn't able to find her in time, would eventually eat him alive.

("All his fault, not mine.") The words muttered by The Bitch as she disappeared into the night suddenly made sense.

_She doesn't want to kill me, _Sara realized_. For whatever reason, she wants Grissom to be unable to get to me in time. I'll die of exposure and dehydration before anyone can pinpoint my location and he'll take the blame on himself. He'll figure he killed me, and the guilt will kill __**him**__. Two for the price of one._

_Ohhh… __**hell **__no! _Sara might have been willing to resign herself to the whims of a cruel fate with which she was intimately acquainted but faced with the prospect of her lover's death, however, she was more determined than ever to see that the sinister stranger who had brought her to this place didn't win. She had worked too damn hard to get what she had to let some lunatic with bad hair and a bad attitude take it all away from her.

Cautiously, Sara began to explore the area around her body. She couldn't move her right arm (even if she wanted to, it was a dead weight at the end of her shoulder) but she could move her fingers. She began digging, clawing at great handfuls of wet earth and plant material. There was some room down by her left thigh and she was able to move her left arm and hand around in a small circle. Her feet, as well, had some wiggle room. There didn't seem to be as much weight pressing down on the backs of her legs as there was on her shoulders.

Sara began to dig at the sand on which she lay. Worried that dislodging the soil might cause the car to shift on top of her, she kept her movements small, hyper aware of the wreck above her. The sand was fairly hard-packed but the rain seeping in helped loosen it. What had once been solid earth was slowly turning into a substance Sara could dig at - and move aside.

After what had to have been several hours of painstaking work, her right hand had created a trench above her head and her left hand could move along her side, from hip to knee, scooping soil with each pass. Her feet, encased in boots (how grateful was she that she didn't go in for the slinky open-toed shoes Catherine favored?) had dug a shallow trench about a foot long.

Time ceased to have any meaning and Sara's body took over the job of moving earth, needing little assistance from her mind. Sometime during the night the rain slackened, slowed to a light drizzle, then stopped altogether. The clouds must have blown aside because she could see faint shadows once again. Soon, the darkness all around the car began to lighten and she realized there was sunlight creeping along the bit of desert floor she could see from under the car's edge.

Still she continued to scrape at the sand. It was mindless work and Sara passed the time indulging in long, elaborate fantasies of being home, at last. The first thing she'd do was drink several bottles of water. Cold, clear water. Then, a bath. With bubbles. Clean clothes and clean sheets and precious, clean sleep, with Grissom's warm body curled around her back.

She could see his familiar face so clearly; his blue eyes concerned and his smile warm and caring. _How are you doing, Honey?_ Dream Grissom asked. His face was the most wonderful thing she had ever seen, asleep or awake.

_Not so good._

_I know. You're a bit stuck. Don't worry. We're all looking for you._

Thoughts of Nick and Greg and Warrick and Brass and – yes, even Catherine – made her eyes misty. Her friends. All the family she would ever need. She missed them. She could imagine them scurrying around, studying evidence, searching for clues to her whereabouts. She had no doubt they were looking. But, would there be anything for them to find?

_I'm so tired. And I hurt. Everywhere. I think I'm scraping all my skin away._

_Keep at it_, Grissom encouraged. _We're coming to get you_. _It won't be long now._

_What if you can't do it? What if you can't find me out here?_

Silence was her only answer. Even her Dream Grissom, it seemed, had better things to do.

"Griss?" she called. But Grissom's face was gone, replaced by a blinding beam of sunlight, reflecting off the car's side mirror somewhere to her right. The sun, which had come up in front of her so many hours ago, was now behind her head, on its way down on the other side of the car.

While she had every confidence that Grissom and the rest of her friends would do everything in their power to find her, Sara decided that it would probably be in her best interest to do her part in getting herself unstuck. Just in case.

The prospect of another cold night spent pinned and helpless under the wreck gave Sara a renewed sense of purpose. Grissom might find perfection and beauty in his little many-legged friends but she was damn tired of sharing her temporary home with creeping, crawling, unseen but definitely felt… things. At least two lizards and… what… something that looked like a small tailless mouse, had crawled under the car to escape the midday sun. Sara shuddered at the thought of the things she'd felt crawling on her exposed arms and head, not to mention up under her shirt. If push came to shove, Sara decided, Grissom was going to have to choose: her or the bugs.

Sara continued to dig, her hands, elbows, knees and feet moving continuously; always sweeping soil away from her body. Every bit of exposed skin was raw and painful and (though she couldn't see she could well imagine) bloody. She didn't care. What difference would a little blood loss - or infection - mean to her if she died out here? It would be worth it once she was back home and safely tucked in bed.

_What the hell is this fascination with our bed_, she thought. _There are lots of other places I feel safe and secure - my apartment, Grissom's cluttered study, the lab, my car. _Thirst, hunger and sleep-deprivation had dulled her wits but Sara found herself unable to let go of the feeling that there was something else going on. Engaged in the process of (possibly) dying alone in the desert, she couldn't stop overanalyzing her impossibly complicated relationship with her ex-mentor, current boss, and lover. _It can't just be because it's the place we have sex, _she thought. They'd had sex plenty of other places and she wasn't fixating on any of them. Besides, none of her fantasies had featured sex. Was it Grissom? Was the bed the place she associated with him, more than any other? While it wasn't the only place they communicated so personally, it was the place they communicated most simply. _Closer_, she thought, _but not quite. Was it the idea of having the dog around for company? A longing for security? I'm so tired, could it simply be sleep I'm craving?_

Thinking about it, Sara decided that it was probably some combination of all of the above. Her needs, from the moment she had been left alone in the desert, had simplified dramatically. A comfortable place to sleep, safety and protection from the elements and a cool drink were all she could imagine she would ever need. Well, all that plus the solid presence of the man she had loved for what seemed like her entire life. Everything came together, in her mind, in the king-sized bed in Grissom's townhouse, with Grissom beside her and Bruno The Surrogate Child somewhere nearby. _It doesn't get any better than that_, she mused.

Now, all she had to do was get there.

Having sorted out her priorities, Sara redoubled her efforts at freeing herself. She had been able, some time ago, to pull her right arm down near her shoulder and could now move both arms in a confined arc around her upper torso. Her knees and feet had created a groove that ran from thighs to toes. She focused her attention on digging at the dirt around her head, the last body part still pinned.

The sun had fully set and the air was cooling dramatically by the time she was able to move enough dirt out of the way to move her head from one side to the other. Or she would, if her neck wasn't so stiff. Lying with her head turned to the right for the better part of 24 hours had stiffened every muscle and tendon in it. Slowly, painfully, Sara lifted her head and turned it until she was lying with her right cheek (for a change) in the dirt. _Wow,_ she thought. _All that effort and the view to my left looks exactly like the view to my right. _

The result of hours of effort meant that now she had room to move. Not much, but enough. Slowly, painfully, she slid her body backward along the shallow trench made by her hands and knees and boots. Her cheek scraped on small rocks that had minutes before been digging into her chest. Her back grazed the indentations and bumps in the roof of the wrecked car but they didn't impede her and still she moved. Backward. Inch by agonizing inch she pushed with her hands and squirmed with her hips, until, at last, her head cleared the edge of the car and she rolled over, finally able to look somewhere other than to the side.

Free at last, dear Lord. Free at last!

TBC


	2. Part 2

If You Want Something Done Right...

PART TWO

The inky night sky sparkled with a billion stars. _Beautiful_, she breathed. _It was so beautiful_! Never had she been so happy to see the sky spread out from horizon to horizon. Never had she smelled anything as sweet as the air that moved freely across her sweat-soaked body, tangy with still-damp earth and no longer tainted with the smell of gas and oil.

She took several minutes to simply enjoy the giddy sensation of freedom. All that space around her was almost too much to take in, after so many hours spent confined. Then she shivered in the cold night air, and the spell was broken when she felt something crawling up the side of her neck. She sat up abruptly, brushing at whatever it was. _Ehhh, _she shuddered_. Grissom's beautiful butterflies in their glass cases just might have to go, too._

Sitting up so swiftly caused a wave of dizziness and nausea to well up and threaten to drown her. She was reminded of the fact that she hadn't eaten or had anything to drink for… how long? Concentrating, she thought she might have been under the car for 24 hours or so? She had been leaving her apartment a little before ten Thursday when she was grabbed. She had been left – she assumed - several hours later early Friday morning and a whole day had passed and she was partially into her second night. It was probably close to nine or ten on Friday night. She vaguely remembered a snack of coffee and a breakfast bar around eight Thursday night so… 24 hours seemed about right.

_Okay, then. Rule of three. That means three days without water and it's only been a little more than a day since I had anything to drink. But does coffee count? s_he worried. Then she decided it really didn't matter. _Better hurry, though, just to be on the safe side._

With that, Sara stood up, slower this time, and looked down at herself. She was, as she had feared, filthy and her clothes water-stained. She had had to empty her bladder sometime in the night while the rain had pooled around her torso, allowing for a very convenient puddle. There was now only the slight smell of urine left behind but, being a fastidious person, the thought of a hot bath and clean underwear was beginning to sound even better to her than her bed.

She was also covered in blood. The knees of her slacks were worn through and what she could see of the skin underneath looked like raw hamburger. Her fingers and palms felt as if she'd scraped them down to the bone. Her nails were torn and oozing. Her forearms and elbows didn't even bear thinking about. Putting the back of her left hand up to her right cheek, she discovered raw skin there, too. She was unbelievably thirsty, hungry, dizzy and barely able to stand upright.

And yet… she was free! _All things considered_, she thought, _I feel pretty damn good_.

Done thinking about the state of her poor, battered body, she turned in a slow circle, trying to get her bearings. The terrain she found herself in was hilly but not impossible to traverse. Facing the direction she had seen the sunrise so many hours ago, she noticed a lighter section of sky she could only make out by not looking directly at it. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a lighter haze, blurring the perfect black of the horizon.

_City lights?_ she wondered. Turning completely around, she detected no such lighter shading anywhere else around her. In fact, behind and to the left and right, the only light came from the moon and stars. _Thank you, God, for the smog_.

East it was, then. She started walking. _Stumbling, more like_, she thought in disgust. Her body had been immobile for more than a day and there were parts of it still tingling as her extremities came awake and the blood flowed, finally, to numb feet and hands. With increased blood flow had come throbbing pain but she held her sore hands up against her chest and continued on. The moonlight was bright enough that she was able to navigate up the slight inclines and down into the shallow valleys, always walking in what she hoped was a fairly straight line toward that distant haze which shimmered, tantalizingly, just out of reach. That haze spelled home and Grissom and her comfy bed. _(There's that damn bed image again! God, I'm so going to need therapy after this.)_

Every hour or so, Sara stopped to rest. Not for long, though. Even in her delusional, befuddled state, she knew she was running out of time. She allowed herself only a few minutes to ease her aching feet and catch her breath before she got up and continued walking, always eastward.

The sun was beginning to lighten the sky in front of her when she came to a raised embankment. Climbing it (what other choice did she have? It was in her way) she suddenly found herself on a wide highway. Scanning left to right she spotted no approaching headlights. Gathering what little strength she had left, she turned to her right and started walking once again, this time along the shoulder of the road.

By now, she was moving strictly on auto. She was no longer thirsty or hungry. Her raw knees and fingers no longer hurt. She couldn't feel her feet. She was so busy concentrating on the effort it took to bring them up, forward and down, one after the other that she had no energy to spare for anything else. Nothing except the fact that she had to keep going. Keep going or die.

It was fully daylight before her subconscious informed her that there were now cars passing her on the road. Not many, and they didn't slow as they passed, but there were a few. Once or twice, she stumbled, almost staggering into the traffic lane. A distracted driver, busy settling backseat squabbles, nearly hit her and honked angrily as he passed, but he didn't slow down. He didn't stop.

The discourtesy would've bothered Sara. If she had noticed.

After an hour or so of walking, Sara was surprised to see a silver mini-van slow down and pull over to the side of the road in front of her. When she found the thing blocking her forward momentum, she merely shifted to detour around it. With a soft whir, the front passenger window rolled smoothly down as Sara passed on the right and a friendly voice called out "Are you okay?"

_Do I look okay? _Sara wanted to ask, but she didn't want to waste the energy it would take to speak. She started forward once more. _I mean, really. What's a polite way to respond to such a question, under the circumstances?_ she wondered.

The van slowly kept pace alongside Sara as she walked. The driver leaned toward the open window. "Do you need a ride somewhere?" she shouted.

_A ride_. Sara stopped. The van stopped. _A ride would be nice_. It would get her where she was going much faster than this slow, stumbling walk. Where was she going again? Oh, yeah. To bed.

"Yes," Sara managed to whisper through dry, cracked lips. She made no move to get in and, instead, stood staring at the passenger door as if trying to figure out what it was for.

The driver, a plump, blonde woman in her early thirties, put the van in park, got out and walked around to open the passenger door, helping Sara climb in. Sara paused, one hand on the doorframe. "I'm filthy," she said. "I'll get your car all dirty."

"Don't worry about it. It'll clean." After getting Sara seated and buckled in, the woman went around and got behind the wheel once more. Surveying Sara's bedraggled, bloody form, she said "My name's Deena. What's yours?"

"Sara."

"Do you need help, Sara? Can I call somebody for you?"

Sara considered the question. She was torn between a sudden physical ache to see Grissom, touch him, hold him, and a more practical need to let people know where she was in the quickest way possible. "Jim Brass," she croaked. "He's a police captain, with the Las Vegas PD." Grissom was probably beside himself with worry, but Brass would know what to do; who to call.

Noticing the difficulty Sara was having speaking, Deena reached into the storage compartment between the seats and pulled out a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap and handing it to Sara, she apologized, "It's not cold, I'm afraid."

Sara stared at it before taking it and sipping slowly. Deena pulled a cell phone out of her purse and flipped it open. "What's this policeman's number?"

Sara was horrified to realize she didn't know the number. "I don't know," she said, suddenly distressed. "It's programmed into my cell phone and I don't know where my cell phone is!"

"I've got an idea," Deena murmured. Reaching up, she pushed a little blue button on a panel above the rear-view mirror.

"OnStar," announced an efficient male voice. "How can I help you?"

"I've got kind of an odd situation here," Deena answered wryly.

"Ma'am. This is OnStar," the voice replied patiently. "There is no such thing as an 'odd situation' to us. Tell me how I can assist you."

_You mean besides finding me a husband to replace the deadbeat I've got at home and a bigger paycheck?_ Deena thought cynically. "I've just picked up a woman walking south on the 215. She's all bloody and her clothes are torn and filthy and I don't know where to take her and she doesn't seem able to help me figure it out. I'd call 911 but the last time I tried to report an accident I was on hold for forty minutes and I don't think we have that kind of time." Glancing at Sara, who was now slumped in the seat and staring straight ahead, she added, "She's only semi-coherent."

_Hey!_ thought Sara. _I've been downright brilliant for someone who's spent the past day-and-a-half wandering around like Moses in the desert._

"She wants me to call a police captain named Jim Brass but she doesn't know the number," Deena continued.

"What's the woman's name?" the OnStar Advisor asked.

"Sara…" Deena looked over at Sara expectantly.

It took Sara a moment to realize why she was staring at her. "… Sidle," she supplied, her voice still raw and whispery. "I'm a criminalist in Las Vegas."

"Sara Sidle. She says she's a criminalist."

"Wait a minute. Wait just one minute!" OnStar Man suddenly yelped. "I know I've seen something… " The sound of shuffling papers could be heard over the van's speaker system. "I knew it," he continued. "We got a bulletin about a missing woman, a criminalist, kidnapped Thursday night from Las Vegas." He paused, obviously trying to get his excitement under control. "You do have yourself a situation," he marveled.

Looking at Sara in wonder, Deena found herself just as excited as the OnStar Advisor to be involved in some honest-to-goodness drama for a change. It sure beat ferrying the kids to school and back and to oboe lessons and karate practice day after day.

"Does she need medical attention?" OnStar Man asked.

"No," Sara replied.

"Yes," Deena answered loudly, ignoring Sara's feeble protests. "I think she's dehydrated and she's all bloody, like I said. She could barely walk when I saw her."

"Okay, here's what we're going to do." OnStar Man said decisively. He was (as he would describe it to his co-workers later) Calm, Collected and In Charge. "If you continue south on the 215, you'll come to West Summerlin Parkway. Head east about nine miles, almost to the 95. On your right will be Red Rock Canyon Hospital. Find the Emergency entrance and pull in. I'll have somebody meet you there."

Happy to have a plan of action at last, Deena thanked the OnStar Advisor for his help, put the car in Drive and pulled back out onto the highway. Beside her, Sara seemed to be dozing. Her eyes were half-open but unseeing, and the water bottle tipped precariously in her lax left hand. (She hadn't drunk much of it, Deena noticed.) Alarmed at Sara's sudden listlessness, Deena sped up, risking a speeding ticket in her haste to get Sara the medical attention she didn't want - but obviously needed.

TBC


	3. Part 3

If You Want Something Done Right...

PART THREE

About twenty minutes later (thank goodness for Saturday light traffic) Deena pulled into an ambulance bay at Red Rock Canyon Hospital. She got out and went around to help Sara open her door and slide out onto the concrete. Whatever resources Sara had used to get her this far now seemed to have evaporated and Deena had to put her arm around her and practically carry her through the automatic doors and into the air-conditioned interior of the emergency room.

Heading down a wide corridor toward something that was probably an admitting desk, Deena and Sara were greeted by two male nurses wearing blue scrubs and a doctor in a white lab coat. Before Deena could explain, they had Sara by the arms and were leading her toward a curtained examination area. Attempting to, anyway. Sara's energy stores were obviously not **entirely** gone and her feet had, apparently, become glued to the floor.

Behind them, Deena and Sara heard sirens approaching. Turning to look back out the doors they had just come through, they could see a black SUV with a flashing light on top and two police cruisers with flashing lights **and** sirens skid to a stop in the driveway. Doors opened and what seemed like fifty people spilled out and headed across the parking lot at a fast trot.

Sara, who hadn't said a word since they left the shoulder of the highway, suddenly spoke up in amazement. "I wonder what that's all about?"

Deena looked at her. "You, I think."

The newcomers, which turned out to be only six people and not fifty, burst through the doors and came to a stop in front of Sara, staring at her with varying degrees of happiness, relief, and concern. There were five men and a woman in street clothes. (Three uniformed officers remained outside, not wanting to add to the crowd already cramming the small ER, Deena supposed.) Two of the men moved toward Sara and the shorter of the two held out a badge toward the doctor. "I'm Captain Jim Brass, Las Vegas PD," he announced. He turned his attention to Sara, touching her shoulder lightly. "Sara? You okay?"

Before she could answer, the second man stepped forward and gathered Sara carefully into his arms. Sara sighed and buried her face in the man's neck, putting both her hands, battered as they were, tightly around his waist. They stood like that for several long minutes while everyone around them waited, hardly daring to breathe for fear they'd break the spell.

This, Deena figured, would be a good time to make her exit. Sara was obviously with people who cared for her and Deena's services were no longer required. No one seemed to notice her as she moved around the group and headed for the doors; all of their attention was focused on Sara and the man holding her. As she reached the doors, the policeman with the badge, Jim Brass, touched Deena's shoulder. She turned toward him. He was smiling broadly (were those tears on his cheeks?) and holding out a small notebook and a pen. "Please," he said. "She's going to want to thank you. Would you write your name and address down for me? I understand if you don't want to be any more involved than you already are but…" He sighed, running a hand across his face. "If you wouldn't mind..."

"I didn't do anything," Deena muttered, but she took the notebook and quickly scribbled the requested information. She handed the notebook back, smiled, turned and walked through the doors to her van. _Boy, will I have a story to tell when I get home!_

Brass headed back up the corridor where there was, it would seem, a storm brewing.

"No!" Sara was insisting loudly. "I don't want to stay. I want to go home."

"Please, Sara," Grissom cajoled. "It's only for the night. The doctors just want to check you out. They want to make sure you don't have any internal injuries. It's only for-"

Sara cut him off, her voice rising. "Please take me home, Griss. Please." The unnatural calm she had displayed ever since she had been picked up on the side of the highway began to slip and her voice cracked as she pleaded, "I'm fine. Don't make me stay here. Please, can't I just go home?"

Grissom, in an effort to calm her down, once again put his arms around her. Sara leaned forward, grasping his shirt tightly in bloodied fists. "Please," she begged. "I want to go home. I can't stay here. I just want to go home." (She was so close now. Her own bed, that holiest of Holy Grails, so close she could see it. They couldn't withhold it. They wouldn't. She wouldn't allow it, not after all she had gone through to get it.)

The doctor, a young woman with a round, cherubic face and a soothing manner stepped forward and spoke quietly, pretending to address Sara while glancing at Grissom, as if seeking his approval of the plan. "How about if we just keep you here for a few hours. We won't even officially admit you. You can stay just over there, in one of the ER beds. We'll get an IV started, get some fluids into you, take a look at those cuts and scrapes and get you cleaned up. Then, if everything looks okay, you can go home."

Sara lifted her head from Grissom's neck and met his blue gaze, hope blossoming in her deep brown eyes. At Grissom's raised eyebrows, she nodded. "Okay."

With the matter settled, the two nurses and the young doctor moved away, conferring, leaving Grissom and Sara huddled together in the middle of the corridor. Feeling eyes on her, Sara surveyed the group standing behind Grissom's left shoulder. Warrick and Catherine looked on with tender, knowing smiles, Nick was openly crying, smiling broadly all the while, and Greg regarded the pair with a delighted, though slightly wistful, expression. Brass just looked smug. None of them, however, looked at all surprised to see Sara and the boss engaged in so public a display of affection.

_They know_, Sara thought suddenly. Reaching up, she slapped Grissom lightly on the back of the head.

"Ow!" he protested. "What was that for?"

"I leave you alone for five minutes and you spill our secret all over the place?" she said. She didn't seem angry but was, instead, grinning her slightly lopsided grin. It would've come out eventually, she understood that. Still… "Who else did you tell?" she asked.

"Nobody," Grissom replied honestly. "Just Cath, Warrick, Nick, Greg and Jim."

"Hey," Brass piped up. "Nobody had to tell me anything. I already knew."

"Sure you did," Catherine said sarcastically.

"I did," protested Brass. "I told you I knew something juicy."

"Okay, okay. We can argue about who knew what and when some other time," Grissom interrupted. "Right now, we need to get Sara looked at so I can take her home."

"Where, exactly, would that be..." wondered Nick in an overly solicitous voice, "…exactly?"

"Never mind that now," Grissom replied, not unkindly.

The hospital personnel were soon back and, this time, Sara allowed herself to be led to a small cubicle off the main corridor.

"We'll head back to the lab. Spread the good news," Greg called after them. "Though - you know - not **all** the good news."

"Could you bring me back my running shorts and t-shirt from my locker?" Sara called back. "I am **not **going home in a hospital gown!"

They left, with promises to be back as quickly as they could.

As soon as she was settled on the bed, Sara found herself surrounded by people doing what looked like very important things. She was hooked up to an IV, a bag of electrolyte solution hung from a stand. They cut off the dirty rags that used to be her clothes and gave her a gown and several blankets. Removing her boots and socks, they found her feet just as raw and pitifully abused as the rest of her; even her blisters had blisters.

One of the nurses held up the hopelessly battered boots with an enquiring look. "Trash?" he asked.

"Absolutely not!" Sara was indignant at the thought. The Doc Martens might not have been made for walking long distances but their sturdy toes had probably saved her life. She grabbed them and hugged them to her chest, daring anyone to try throwing them away. (Nobody did.)

She lay back, clutching the boots and feeling better than she had in longer than she could remember. Grissom sat next to her, holding her wrist lightly. (Her fingers looked too sore to risk touching.) "Me and the Doc Martens," he joked. "I guess you're stuck with all three of us."

Sara regarded him solemnly. "Do we know who did this to me? And... why?"

Grissom thought for a moment, wondering how much to tell her. "We caught the Miniature Killer," he said, finally.

"Really," Sara said. "Who...? What...? How...?" She wasn't sure which question she wanted answered first.

"I'll fill in the details later, but it was one of Ernie Dell's foster children, just as we thought. A young woman named Natalie. Her biological father, if you can believe it, uses a ventriloquist's dummy as a substitute for her dead sister."

"Natalie," Sara said in wonder. "A woman? The Miniature Killer is a woman?" Sara was amazed. She had done the research, she knew how rare female serial killers were. They hadn't even considered it might be a woman. "Wait," she continued. "What does that have to do with me?"

Grissom took a deep breath. This was the hard part, but Sara deserved the truth. "It doesn't have anything to do with you. It has to do with me. She blames me for taking Ernie away from her and she was trying to take someone I loved away from me to even the score." Feeling suddenly exhausted, Grissom lay his head in her lap, the guilt he felt almost overwhelming him. "She sent us a miniature of you with the car on top of you and we spent all yesterday trying to find out who helped her transport it out to the desert," he continued. "We were just getting ready to take helicopters and start searching the area we thought she had taken you when OnStar called Brass to say you'd been picked up." Grissom sat up and looked into Sara's eyes. "I'm so sorry," he said. "It was because of your relationship with me that she took you. If you had..."

Sara smiled. "Shhh." She quieted him by placing her palm on the back of his neck. "I'm fine. We're both fine." (_Seems we'll __**both**__ be needing therapy, _she thought, amused at the thought of her pathologically private boyfriend sitting on a shrink's couch describing his dreams.) "This Natalie. Do you have her in custody?"

"Yes," Grissom replied. "She's totally delusional, though. Wouldn't say anything useful."

Sara laughed, "I met her, remember?"

Grissom smiled back. This was going better than he had any right to expect.

Several hours later, somewhat re-hydrated, wounds bathed and bandaged, Sara was once again seated in the front seat of a vehicle. This time, though, she was on her way home. To her bed. _My bed_. She had repeated the words over and over in her mind so often as she walked through the desert that they now sounded like meaningless gibberish to her. _Whatever_, she thought. The picture of the bed and all it represented was etched forever in her mind and it would soon be hers.

Their friends, as promised, had come back bearing gifts: clean shorts and a t-shirt for Sara and Grissom's car. Sara's statement, Brass had informed them, could wait until she felt up to it and the ER photos would be sufficient to document her injuries. With careful hugs and promises that they'd come by Grissom's house the next day, they went their separate ways and Grissom and Sara headed home.

Sara dozed fitfully in the front seat, jerking awake every few minutes to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. Soon, they were pulling into the driveway of the townhouse. Grissom helped her up the stairs and through the front door into the quiet interior. Bruno, alone for what had seemed to him like an eternity, was ecstatic. Grissom had to issue a stern reprimand to stop him from jumping up on Sara in his joy. He planted his butt on the floor at her feet, tongue lolling, while she fussed over him. Satisfied with the attention, for the moment, he wandered off in search of a drink or something interesting to chew on.

Grissom helped Sara climb the flight of stairs leading up to the bedroom, and her long-anticipated bath. While Grissom ran the water, tested it to make sure it wasn't too hot, and added something sweet-smelling, Sara stripped out of the shorts and t-shirt and hospital slippers and headed, naked, into the bathroom. Grissom, catching sight of her body, caught his breath. He'd only gotten glimpses at the hospital.

"My God," he gasped. Her back, from neck to buttocks, was one large bruise. She had bruises on her ribs, shoulders and thighs, as well. Slowly unwrapping the bandages from her elbows and knees, it seemed as though there wasn't an inch on her entire body that wasn't either raw, blistered or black-and-blue. Feeling very near the breaking point, Grissom took deep breaths and managed to get his emotions under control, figuring (wisely) that his horrified reaction wouldn't help Sara.

"Griss?" Sara cupped his chin in her hand, tugging gently until he looked up and met her eyes. "I really am fine."

He nodded. He understood, on an intellectual level, that she would heal; the raw skin would scab over and the bruises would fade. Still... the fear lingered. He had never before felt anything like the paralyzing panic he had experienced over the past day-and-a-half whenever he thought they wouldn't be able to get to Sara in time. What if she hadn't been as strong as he had always suspected she was? They had been close to finding her but what if their efforts hadn't been enough?

If this was what it was like to love someone so completely, no wonder he had avoided it for most of his adult life. He shook his head, shrugging off the remnants of fear and panic and smiled at her. "You did good, you know," he said quietly. "I always knew you weren't a damsel in need of rescuing."

"Damn right," she said. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

"Just don't get mad at me for wanting to know where you are every minute of the day for the next fifty years or so," he replied firmly. (A man had to do what a man had to do, too.)

"Fair enough." Sara sank gingerly into the hot, fragrant water. It stung her open wounds unmercifully but it also felt good. How wonderful to be clean! (Once she was dried off and bandaged again she figured that would be the end of her baths for a while, until she had healed sufficiently, and she was going to enjoy it while she could.) For now, the water felt wonderful, sting and all.

Grissom gently scrubbed her back, chest and arms and shampooed her hair, then helped her climb out of the tub. Wrapping her loosely in a fluffy bath sheet, he held her, for longer than was probably necessary. She allowed it because she needed it, too. Other than her bed, it was the thought of being held so securely in his arms that had sustained her and kept her walking when all she wanted to do was lie down in the sand and die.

She was finished rushing through the small, intimate moments that enriched a life.

Dressed in clean shorts and shirt, Sara sat on the closed toilet lid while Grissom blow-dried her hair then gently applied antibiotic ointment and re-bandaged her various wounds. For her hands, the hospital had given them several pairs of the thin, antibiotic-infused gloves they used on burn victims, she was happy to see. She wouldn't be totally without the use of her fingers at least. By the time he was finished applying the gauze, Grissom thought she looked like something out of a Saturday Matinee Creature Feature. He also thought she had never looked more beautiful.

At last, Sara made her way to the bed she had dreamed of almost continuously for nearly two days. The covers were turned back, the sheets crisp, and she sank gratefully onto the edge of the bed with a deep sigh of pleasure. "You need to eat something," Grissom said. "How about I bring you some toast?"

"No. I'm not hungry." At his look of disappointment, Sara relented, deciding she would allow him to pamper her a little bit. He obviously needed to do it much more than she needed it done. "Some juice would be nice, though," she added. Grissom smiled and left the room, heading down the stairs to the kitchen. Sara called after him, "And a bottle of water, too, please!"

Bruno padded over to her side of the bed, ready for some love from his Mistress. She was the more demonstrative of the two humans he lived with and he had missed her. He really hoped she'd take him for a run soon, because he needed to get out and make sure everything in the neighborhood was okay. (Being a dog, he was unaware of the disappointed hopes in his near future.) Sara held up her gloved hands and kissed his snout. "Sorry, boy. I'm a little handicapped here." Snuffling loudly, Bruno lay down on the rug at her feet, ready to wait, however long it took.

Sara drew her legs up and under the covers, arranging the sheets carefully over her knees. Arriving with the juice, Grissom handed it to her and placed the bottle of cold water on the nightstand, within reach. He watched while she downed the orange juice, then took the empty glass and set it beside the water.

Snuggling down into her pillows, Sara looked enquiringly at Grissom, who still stood beside the bed, watching her. "You coming to bed?" she asked drowsily.

"Of course." Grissom shed his pants and shirt, shoes and socks, and slipped under the covers. Sara turned onto her left side, her usual side, and arranged the pillow under her head. Grissom turned off the light and slid over behind her, as close as he dared, placing one arm under her shoulder and the other across her stomach. He had a sudden need to put both arms around her and squeeze her to him as tightly as he could, but resisted it.

"This, right here, is heaven on earth," Sara murmured, half-asleep already.

"Really." Grissom whispered back. "If I'd known you were so easy to please, I'd have taken you to bed years ago," he joked.

"Don't laugh." Sara turned to look at him, suddenly needing for him to realize the importance of what she had said. "I had nothing but time to think while I was out there and the one thing that kept me going was this vision I had of you and me, snuggled up together in this big bed. In my fantasies, I had some water and a blanket… and you. Things became so simple, in my mind. Everything I'd ever thought I wanted or needed was stripped away until nothing was left but this image of you and me. It kept me alive. It's important you understand, Griss."

"Shhh," he soothed. "I understand. You and me. I got it."

"You're just humoring me," she pouted.

"Yes. I am. I'm trying to get you to go to sleep so you can begin the healing process. Sleep is the body's best way of dealing with damage." He got her settled back down on her side; the two of them spooned together. "Now, go to sleep," he whispered. "You can tell me all about this epiphany of yours tomorrow. Over a very large, very fattening breakfast."

"M'kay." Sara's eyes drifted closed and her breathing slowed and within minutes she was asleep. Grissom gave in to temptation and tightened his grip around her body, his right hand pressed firmly between her breasts, where he could feel her heart beating steadily; slow and strong.

And once he was sure she was deeply, peacefully asleep, he let go of the rigid self-control that had enabled him to function while she was lost somewhere in the Nevada desert. He gave in and allowed silent tears – finally - to slide, unchecked, down his face.

The End


End file.
